04:11
Faizan
Darby was a square-faced man. You've seen the kind, cheek-bones wide, stretched outward with the square jaw; and the nose, more alkaline than not, put right into the center of the face, like a parrot. He was lying on his back, looking up towards the moon, one might say, in a painful way, at the wrong time. Watching the past and forgoing the future in a death drift.
Things are not clear at night, Darby was repressed, bottled-up, sinking into a dream state, and out, seeing things in the near dark, if indeed they were things or dreams, which one he couldn't tell. Was it last night or this night, he was dreaming, and was he seeing what he was seeing, or dreaming what he was seeing? In either case, obscure. At the end of the dream, or obscure sight-it was as if he was on stage then off stage, it all was a guess of course.
It all was overhang, an extension of something, the dream, the obscureness. His mind was telling him in several different voices, this and that, as if crisscrossing the same spot, with different plots and themes, in different ways, and he wasn't schizophrenic, that he knew of. And with all these voices coming and going, came names, names that abruptly changed as did the location of the spot, and the details of the spot change, as one would expect in dreams, or perhaps in the gray night with shadows and in particular looking up at the moon, although that didn't seem to Darby all that significant, what it was! Why didn't he just get up and move, leave, go.
Be that as it may, he hated. Not that anyone had done him what people would consider a harsh wrong. Far from it, he did as he pleased most of his life. The wound was the intangible kind. Somewhat elusive if you were to ask the common Joe. As to define this clearer, it would be an infinite analysis. Many of us experience such feelings in life, that life itself has done us wrong. And when our minds meet this moment, we may even say: "I do not like that person, never have... " or "I wish I would have but... " or "If only... " (if's and but's) whomever for whatever purpose. Why does that person bother you, we can't quite put our finger on it, but nonetheless, we have taken an aversion to it, and all that comes to our mind, is that we do, and we do not like even having that aversion for: person, place or thing: but we got it all the same.
The dim past now resurrects, his lifecycle confronts him: birth, guilt, judgment, sex, and family, social, ritual, and even death. These are the names of the voices, along with, sleep and working, rise and fall, sin, conflict, redemption, all running a close race behind one another, across the fields of his mind.
"What," he asked himself, "what are they trying to tell me?"
It's in a different language, or are they trying to create a new language, and trying at the same time to put the puzzle together for me?
So he is thinking all this.
Point of fact: "Who is the dreamer?" He asked himself.
I mean, isn't he doing all the thinking for all the voices? A question for himself; and I can assure you, he has asked that question, to no avail.
Was it him, or one of those voices running this mute commentary?
A voice said, or so he translated it as having said, as a suggestion to pondering, "If you are dreaming, move about more freely."
At times he thought he was moving about, but was he?
Then a voice said, as if he thought it, "What right have they to be happy?" Whoever they were he couldn't guess. It was as if his subconscious knew something he had hidden, as if there was a pretense alive, and someone, or thing wanted to blow out the candle of that con we carry to the grave.
Things are not clear at night, Darby was repressed, bottled-up, sinking into a dream state, and out, seeing things in the near dark, if indeed they were things or dreams, which one he couldn't tell. Was it last night or this night, he was dreaming, and was he seeing what he was seeing, or dreaming what he was seeing? In either case, obscure. At the end of the dream, or obscure sight-it was as if he was on stage then off stage, it all was a guess of course.
It all was overhang, an extension of something, the dream, the obscureness. His mind was telling him in several different voices, this and that, as if crisscrossing the same spot, with different plots and themes, in different ways, and he wasn't schizophrenic, that he knew of. And with all these voices coming and going, came names, names that abruptly changed as did the location of the spot, and the details of the spot change, as one would expect in dreams, or perhaps in the gray night with shadows and in particular looking up at the moon, although that didn't seem to Darby all that significant, what it was! Why didn't he just get up and move, leave, go.
Be that as it may, he hated. Not that anyone had done him what people would consider a harsh wrong. Far from it, he did as he pleased most of his life. The wound was the intangible kind. Somewhat elusive if you were to ask the common Joe. As to define this clearer, it would be an infinite analysis. Many of us experience such feelings in life, that life itself has done us wrong. And when our minds meet this moment, we may even say: "I do not like that person, never have... " or "I wish I would have but... " or "If only... " (if's and but's) whomever for whatever purpose. Why does that person bother you, we can't quite put our finger on it, but nonetheless, we have taken an aversion to it, and all that comes to our mind, is that we do, and we do not like even having that aversion for: person, place or thing: but we got it all the same.
The dim past now resurrects, his lifecycle confronts him: birth, guilt, judgment, sex, and family, social, ritual, and even death. These are the names of the voices, along with, sleep and working, rise and fall, sin, conflict, redemption, all running a close race behind one another, across the fields of his mind.
"What," he asked himself, "what are they trying to tell me?"
It's in a different language, or are they trying to create a new language, and trying at the same time to put the puzzle together for me?
So he is thinking all this.
Point of fact: "Who is the dreamer?" He asked himself.
I mean, isn't he doing all the thinking for all the voices? A question for himself; and I can assure you, he has asked that question, to no avail.
Was it him, or one of those voices running this mute commentary?
A voice said, or so he translated it as having said, as a suggestion to pondering, "If you are dreaming, move about more freely."
At times he thought he was moving about, but was he?
Then a voice said, as if he thought it, "What right have they to be happy?" Whoever they were he couldn't guess. It was as if his subconscious knew something he had hidden, as if there was a pretense alive, and someone, or thing wanted to blow out the candle of that con we carry to the grave.
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